


nothing i want more

by blue--phantom (twilightscribe)



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comfort, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kink Meme, M/M, One Shot, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 12:05:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9819788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightscribe/pseuds/blue--phantom
Summary: Napoleon gets hurt. Illya looks after him.





	

If he still had breath to be knocked out of him, then Illya’s shoulder to his gut would do it.

Napoleon’s well-aware that he’s not exactly light, but Illya slings him over his shoulder with ease.

Then takes off running.

His vision’s already swimming and he’s dazed. The head wound combined with whatever the liquor was spiked with is a pretty potent combination and Napoleon’s sitting somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness. He’s also about eighty percent sure that he’s hallucinating.

“Cowboy, you need to stay conscious.” There’s a grunt, the sound of a body hitting the ground. “Do not sleep until I tell you, do you hear me?”

Napoleon nods, then realizes that Illya can’t see his head. He swallows the cotton lodged in his throat, “Loud and clear.”

He sounds ragged. Like he’s been gargling with a glass of the Sahara _and_ taken sandpaper to the back of his throat. Honestly, he’s amazed that Illya even understood him.

“Good. I will have us out of here soon.” Two gunshots. Two more thuds. “You only need to stay awake until then. I will get you to a doctor.”

“Don’t need one,” Napoleon quips, trying to focus, but everything’s running together. He _thinks_ that there’s four bodies on the ground, but the floor and the walls have started running together and he can’t tell down from up anymore.

“Cowboy.”

Oh, he knows that tone well.

It’s the tone he hears when one of his schemes doesn’t _quite_ go according to plan. The last time he heard it, was when he found out that talking is not a good distraction against the hired help; particularly of the muscular and meathead variety. They’re less interested in a good conversation and more so in rearranging the state of his internal organs.

That had resulted in a two week hospital stay. And he’d been forced to stay there for the entire duration because Illya had appointed himself nurse _and_ bodyguard. He’d been completely insufferable the entire time and not even Napoleon’s best puppy eyes or arguments had swayed him.

He wants to comment on that, tell Illya that he thinks he’s impossible, but his tongue has become glued to the roof of his mouth and his vision is going suspiciously dark at the edges.

Oh, it looks like unconsciousness is going to win, despite his best efforts.

Illya is going to be so disappointed.

 

 

 

The next thing that Napoleon’s aware of is the distinctive smell of a hospital.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” he comments. His voice sounds awful, and he coughs, which makes him feel like he’s going to throw up.

Curling up onto his side, he’s aware of a large, rough hand stroking smooth circles at his back, while he presented with what he’s certain is either a large bucket or a trash can. Whatever the case, he’s grateful for it and heaves.

Problem is, there’s nothing for him to bring up. Well, nothing but bile.

The hand stays where it is, rubbing circles into his back, until the dizziness fades. The bucket is lowered and he’s carefully tucked back into the bed, between linens that crackle with stiffness. Napoleon hates hospitals, but Illya’s fussing makes them bearable.

“I will fetch the doctor,” Illya says. “You are not to move till I get back.”

Napoleon groans and nods. He feels like shit and it’s pointless to argue with Illya when he gets like this; he never wins.

He still can’t make anything out when he manages to open his eyes. Everything’s stark white, blending together into a large blur. He can’t even make out the edges of his own hospital bed.

Napoleon closes his eyes, drops his head to the pillow, and relaxes. He can still feel Illya’s presence, for lack of a better word, at the outside of his door. He’s safe so long as Illya’s on watch, and he’ll be sleeping in the chair at Napoleon’s bedside until he’s cleared for release.

And then he’ll continue to fuss over him at whatever safe house they’re sent to. Until Napoleon’s cleared again for active duty.

That, Napoleon thinks, might be a while.

 

 

 

When it’s just the two of them, Illya leaves his chair and climbs into bed with Napoleon.

Unsurprisingly, he’s too tall for the hospital bed. But they’re used to that. He props himself up against the headboard, nestling Napoleon’s head into the curve of his thigh, and runs his fingers gently through the mussed hair.

If his head weren’t throbbing so badly, Napoleon would tease him. But Illya’s fingers dig in _just_ right and the pain lessens. His eyes, which still aren’t seeing clearly, droop closed and he curls as close to Illya as the tiny hospital bed will allow.

There’s something to be said about simply just sleeping with someone. It’s incredibly intimate, more so Napoleon has to admit, than sex. And he and Illya have had plenty of that – usually with him as the instigator. He’s very good at painting a convincing argument why that couch or that bed or that wall would make for an excellent place to have sex; and, what can he say, he’s quite talented with his mouth when he wants to be.

Now, however, it’s Illya who’s in control.

His fingers are rough, but gentle against Napoleon’s scalp. There’s no snagging as he runs his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, digging his fingers into the scalp in _just_ the right places that have Napoleon melting against him.

He snuggles close, burying his face in Illya’s thigh. He’s tired, lethargic and still not able to see properly. Meaning that he won’t be leaving the hospital in the foreseeable future. Well, at least he’ll have Illya.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Words:** 952 words.
> 
> Written for [this prompt](https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=415360) on the kink meme. Because I've still got a folder full of prompts that need to be filled. I'm debating whether or not I want to revisit this one in the future because I'm not 100% happy with it, but I couldn't find a way to continue it that didn't seem awkward. Anyway, hope you all enjoy it!


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